River Run

by Toni Dwiggins

  I started again for our boulders, and I was stopped again—intercepted by Quillen and Walter and Pete, and they pitched a plan. I didn't hold much hope, but it was worth a shot.

  The four of us returned to gather around Reid.

  He cocked his head.

  Pete said, “Here's the situation, Mr. Lassen. We're going to need to wait for another helicopter. At least a couple of hours...”

  “And so I proposed,” Quillen picked up, “that we instead return to our anchorage and take the opportunity to investigate what happened to your rafting party. What precipitated the panic. Now that you've proposed Gary Phipps as the perpetrator here, it would follow that he was your tormentor at the beach.” Quillen fastened his knapsack hip belt. “Shall we go do a little crime scene re-enactment?”

  Reid considered, a touch too long. “I don't remember landing at that beach.”

  “Then we'll go downriver and find where you did land.”

  “Don't worry,” Pete added, “I can drive a raft. And we can catch a chopper downriver.”

  Reid said, wearily, “I'd rather wait for the next chopper here.”

  Quillen smiled. “I'd rather you didn't.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  REID WAS LOOKING AROUND the rocky beach.

  “Is it coming back to you?” Quillen asked. “What happened here.”

  “No.”

  “Then let's try re-enacting.”

  Reid touched his forehead. “It's been one hell of a long day.”

  “We're all tired.”

  Indeed. Tired and foot-sore. On our return we'd taken a quicker route via ridges and terraces but it was still a long slog. We'd arrived hot and sweaty and cooled off quickly. It was late afternoon and we were in shadow. We grouped around Reid, a chilled weary audience.

  Quillen continued. “You say Mr. Phipps is responsible for the cavern. Assume, two weeks ago, he saw you and your party nearby.”

  “We weren't nearby.”

  “In the area, then. Assume he was alarmed. And tracked you here to this beach. A reasonable assumption?”

  “I don't remember this place.”

  “Assume. He surprised you—from where?” Quillen glanced around.

  I looked, as well. Phipps could have hidden in the thick stands of tamarisk, or back in the recesses of the gorge mouth, where we'd looked unsuccessfully for Megan Schrader. Or up on the clifftop.

  Reid stared out at the river.

  “If you refuse to give this a try,” Quillen said, “I'll assume you have something to hide.”

  Reid looked at Quillen. “We would have seen him coming. That satisfy you?”

  “You would have been busy with your raft. Preparing to leave.”

  “We would have heard him.”

  “You would have heard what I hear now. The rapid.”

  “Then Gary wasn't here. We weren't here.”

  “That's not the premise,” Quillen said. “The premise is, you and your party were here. Surprised by Phipps. Your protestation smacks of see-no-evil, hear-no-evil.”

  “We weren't here expecting evil.”

  “Evil, as in adding a large salinity point source to the river.”

  “Yes, evil—Gary Phipps. Up at that cavern. Not here.”

  Pete took a step toward Reid. “That cavern is where you'd start it. Add a cancer to my river.”

  Reid faced down the ranger. “Not. Me.”

  I didn't buy it. Of course it was Reid, up at the cavern. Gary Phipps was Reid's scapegoat. Maybe Quillen's bluff could get Reid to slip up—deny Gary's presence here vehemently enough to cast doubt on Gary as the perpetrator of that explosives-rigged cavern. But my hope was fading for a Reid Lassen slip-up. And further, I couldn't figure what Reid was after. Some extreme protest, focusing attention on the salinity threat? What kind of man pollutes that which he professes to champion? And if not that, what evil was he after?

  I was missing something.

  Walter said, “Let's drill down, Reid. You and your party return from a hike. You board the raft to put on your life vest. You have that baggie of chips in hand—preparing for your show and tell. Somehow, you drop the baggie. Then you go untie the bow line, but before you can secure it on the deck, something happens. Causing panic. And you just toss it aboard. It falls on the baggie. Amidst the panic, the raft goes adrift. Hembry and Pendleton and you go into the river after it. Schrader...we don't know what happens to her.”

  Reid said, coldly, “This is all bullshit, Walter.”

  “And who caused the panic?” Walter said, implacable. “The man who blames you for his father's death. Gary Phipps.”

  “Not here.”

  “My guess is a gun,” Quillen said, continuing Walter's bluff. “He shoots at you. Being shot at is traumatic. That cause your traumatic memory loss?”

  “You got that part right—memory loss. That means I don't remember this place.”

  “You don't remember Gary Phipps. Anywhere.”

  “Agent Quillen, give this a try. I don't remember Gary at the cavern because I wasn't there. I assume he arranged it—a reasonable assumption. And my poor niece found it. Beyond that, I don't know. I don't remember where my party landed. I don't remember what happened to us when we tried to leave.”

  Quillen studied Reid. “All right, Mr. Lassen, we'll try to discover where you did land. What happened to you and your party. We still have a missing rafter.”

  Reid hesitated. And then said, “I think that's a good idea.”

  I watched Reid. No worry on that poker face. One last play here, by the master player. The hesitation, as if he's not eager to get the hell away from the Shinumo. And then the reluctant agreement. But don't rule out Special Agent Quillen, Reid. This isn't over. Quillen's a player, too. He'll snare you on the trip downriver. He'll get you, in tomorrow's interrogation.

  Quillen started for the raft. “Let's go downriver.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  RANGER MOLINA NEATLY secured the bow line on the deck and unclipped his blue vest from his duffel. He donned the vest, moved back to boatman territory, unclipped Wes's vest from the railing and stowed it the boatman's box, and then checked the motor well.

  Taking charge of his raft.

  Meanwhile, the rest of us buckled our PFDs and settled in our usual places atop the duffel piles.

  This was going to be a short trip. Sam Pendleton had been found not far downriver, around mile one-twelve. That put Reid's anchorage upriver from there. Put it right here, I was all but convinced. All but—I couldn't ignore the fact that the vest we'd found along Shinumo Creek had been dropped by Becca. Not by Schrader. Which meant there was no evidence of Megan Schrader hiking the Shinumo area. It was conceivable that Reid's party had stopped at one of the downriver beaches Pete showed us on the map. More likely they'd stopped here, as we'd figured.

  Either way, it looked like rafter Schrader had gone into the river without her vest.

  I studied the rocky debris-fan beach. This anchorage with its watery lushness—with its outflow of Shinumo Creek—was surely a magnet for Reid Lassen. A landmark to be taken note of. To be shown off, to Reid's fishing buddies. Of course, they weren't just fishing buddies. They were accomplices. They were his new disciples.

  And the creek was key to their scheme. Salt the clear Shinumo, which takes that salinity load to the Colorado. Still, I was mystified. I didn't buy a protest. So what did they want?

  Something landed in my lap and I nearly jumped.

  It was a small rock, and I heard Pete's soft words behind me. “Might help.”

  Reid, facing forward, didn't see. Didn't hear, certainly, over the sound of the rapid. See no evil. Hear no evil.

  Walter leaned close to see what Pete had gifted. Neither of us spoke but either of us could do a quick and dirty field ID of the rock in my hand. Greenish Bright Angel Shale, with white crystalline halite inclusions. Collected by Ranger Molina down in the depths of Becca's cavern.

  I gave Pete a thumbs-up and secured the rock i
n my zippered pants pocket.

  Pete started the motor.

  As the ranger nosed the raft into the heart of the river, I trusted that he was as skilled as Wes Hawthorne at the tiller. I'd seen Pete nothing less than skilled at any task he'd laid hand to.

  “Shinumo Rapid coming up,” he called. “Easy ride.”

  Yeah, as Wes had judged it this morning, before we'd pulled in to shore.

  Pete punched right through the little rapid, giving us some bumps and splashes, and I rode it relaxed. Glad to be nearly finished with this long draining day. Glad to be sitting. Glad, I found, to be back on the river.

  Shinumo Rapid funneled us, at the tail end, around a bend, into a short calm stretch, and I had the leisure to ID the reddish riverside walls as Bass Limestone.

  “One-Hundred-Nine-Mile rapid ahead,” Pete called. “This one's a sleeper—couple of nasty rocks.”

  My focus snapped back to the river. The sleeper rapid looked barely there, from this distance just a seam of white foam bisecting the river.

  Nevertheless, Pete told us to get down and we slid off the duffel piles onto the floor mat and found our hand-holds.

  All except Reid.

  At first I thought he was sick of following orders, pissed at being cargo yet again on this raft, pissed at being interrogated, pissed that none of us bought his denials, his slick dodges, and he's going to damned well stay put because he styles himself a champion of this river, a showman.

  Only there was no swagger to him, up there on his duffel. No relaxed here's how I ride the rapid.

  He was rigid. And then he pulled in his shoulders, seemed to try to shrink himself. And then his hands jerked up, and his body jerked back, as if the raft had hit a bump in the river, only we hadn't yet come to the next bumps in the river.

  Quillen, from his backrest against his duffel, looked up at Reid. Wondering what I was wondering?

  Walter said, “Reid?”

  Reid moved then. Galvanized. He spun on his duffel and lurched in a half-crouch onto the side pontoon and from there, propelled it seemed by momentum, he tumbled into the river.

  I gaped.

  Quillen scrambled from his seat on the floor toward the edge of the raft and it looked as though he was going to follow Reid into the water but he stopped himself at the pontoon, wrapping his hands in a rigging strap.

  The raft lurched. Slowing abruptly. Pete throttling down.

  Walter was already on his knees at the pontoon.

  I followed suit, crowding in between Walter and Quillen, staring out into the river.

  “He's in trouble,” Walter said.

  Sure looked like it. Reid was thrashing in the water. Had he gone in by accident? Trying now to get back to the raft? But the current was taking him faster than the raft now traveled.

  Pete yelled, “I need help back here.”

  Quillen moved, the FBI agent onto his feet and climbing into the boatman area before Walter or I could respond.

  I saw Pete with a rescue throwbag in his hands, giving the tiller to Quillen—who drives a ski boat, not a river raft.

  Pete flinched, and paused, and then he started unspooling yellow rope from the throwbag.

  “Get up front and spot,” he yelled at me.

  I did as I was told, scrambling around the gear boxes and duffels up to the bow, moving onto the aluminum deck, anchoring myself by grabbing the eyebolt where the bow line was attached. I started spotting, judging Reid's position in relation to the raft, the raft still slowed and the current taking Reid ahead, Reid coming almost parallel with me at the bow, and I yelled at him to prepare to catch the throwbag, wondering if he could catch it one-handed, but he didn't hear me over the sound of the upcoming rapid, or he didn't pay attention. Still thrashing. I thought come on, you're a river runner, you know how to get in position for a rescue. But he didn't.

  I shouted to Pete, “We're losing him.”

  Walter was halfway onto the pontoon, craning to watch Reid, and then looking to Pete.

  Pete passed the unspooled rope across his shoulders, a climber's move, a belay, to manage the rope. He cocked his other arm and threw the bag.

  The throwbag arced high, a bright orange missile, and the yellow rope continued to unspool from the bag, plenty of rope I remembered from Wes's emergency lecture before we launched this morning, to allow the throwbag to land in front of the person in the river, even hit him on the head, but the throwbag fell short and landed in the water well behind Reid.

  It wasn't the fault of the driver. Quillen held the raft in a steady slow line.

  It was the fault of the river ranger, who had wildly misjudged. Who had dropped his end of the rescue rope.

  I stared at Pete. Something was wrong. He was flinching again. Jerking at his vest.

  He was unbuckling his vest.

  What the hell?

  We all watched in confusion as the ranger got his vest off and clawed at his shirt, ripping it open, buttons flying, and then he was clawing at his bare chest, leaving red scratches.

  He gathered himself then. He looked at Quillen and shouted something and then he looked at Walter and me and shouted something. His words were garbled. I thought he'd said “your vests” but I wasn't sure, not until he shouted again, one more word, getting it loud and clear this time. “Scorpions.”

  What?

  I fumbled with the buckles of my vest. On the one hand ready to panic, on the other hand wondering what kind of scorpions they have in the Grand Canyon, thinking maybe they're not all that dangerous, and then I rethought. Pete clawing at his chest. His garbled words. That clumsy throw from the skilled ranger. Maybe he was allergic.

  Maybe the scorpions were all that dangerous.

  I fumbled my buckles.

  Reid in the river was ahead of us now. Now he was still. Floating. Taken by the current. No protest. And I figured in dread, scorpions got him. That what happened to him on the trip with his buddies? Happened to them all? Stung, poisoned, panicked.

  I got the buckles open and tore off my vest. I looked closely and saw the thing in the shoulder seam. It was nearly translucent. I almost missed it. It was the color of straw and maybe three inches long and its pincers opened like arms for a hug and its stingered tail curled up as if in warning.

  Shit.

  I tore open my shirt and looked at my bare skin, looking for its buddies. Didn't see anything, not even a pinprick. I'm not stung. I'm okay. But I took off my shirt and bra and threw them to the deck and then leaned over the edge and dunked my vest in the river and almost lost it in the current, but you don't go on the river without your PFD. I held onto it.

  I shouted at Walter. “Check your vest!”

  But Walter didn't hear me. Didn't hear Pete. Walter was frozen on the edge of the pontoon.

  Quillen heard. Quillen had his vest off. His shirt off. He brushed his chest, but he didn't claw at the skin as Pete had.

  Pete was showing more effects now, moving slowly and clumsily, numbly, surely he couldn't even throw a throwbag now, and he was fumbling with his pack, and he fumbled it right into the river. He stared after it. Then shook his head and returned to his vest, and managed to get it back on and put the buckle ends together.

  So slowly.

  Everything was slow. My brain was numb.

  I sat back on my heels and held up my vest and checked it a dozen times and then slipped it on, and to my great relief I saw that Walter had his vest off and was examining it. He looked so calm. Maybe his vest was clean. I'd only found one scorpion in mine. But they'd clearly gotten into Pete's. Pete's vest had been clipped to his duffel, near the bow. My vest and Walter's and Quillen's had been clipped to our duffels, farther back.

  Had the things come aboard at the bow? And only one or two made it farther back?

  I didn't know. I was thinking so slowly. I jerked another look at Walter and saw him putting his vest back on, buckling it. And then he edged out onto the pontoon.

  I stumbled off the deck, heading for Walter.
r />   When I reached him, he said, “Stay put.” And then my partner swung his legs across the pontoon and went into the water.

  I lurched to the edge, where he'd gone in. Where some vestigial tie of fellowship had taken him into the water to save his old friend. I wanted to scream. Instead, I watched him in the river. Swimming with the current, in control, a good swimmer. He was heading for Reid. Reid was still floating, looking lifeless. Walter was already gaining on him. Reid floated into the head of the rapid. Walter was swimming like hell for the rapid.

  For the sleeper with the nasty rocks.

  I screamed but of course he couldn't hear me.

  I looked back at Pete to see what he was going to do, but of course there were no more throwbags. It wouldn't have mattered. The ranger was shivering uncontrollably. Arms jerking. On his knees because he clearly couldn't stand.

  But I could. And swim. I had already double-checked the buckles of my vest. I'd just gotten to my knees on the pontoon when I felt the sting on my right ankle.

  It was a pinch. It was an ant bite. And then it was a searing hot pain. It was a live wire electrifying my foot, my leg.

  I cried out and swiveled on the pontoon and yanked up the leg of my pants and saw my ankle reddening, and my leg muscles twitched and I kicked out and that dislodged it. The scorpion fell out, the tiny straw-colored thing with fire in its tail.

  And it was gone.

  But that didn't matter.

  Because there were a hundred more where that came from.

  The blue floor mat was littered with them, skittering legs and stinging tails held up in the air. They came out from under the duffels. They came out from under the gear boxes. They came out from hiding, jostled by the bumps in the river from the rapid behind us, from the little chop we were now entering, disturbed by our shouts and thrashing around, and how the hell did they all get in here?

  I turned to Quillen and Pete in the back and yelled. “Scorpions. Floor.”

  Quillen looked down and shook his head but nevertheless came up in a crouch on the boatman seat, never letting go of the tiller. Pete looked down, looked up, looked at me, his face white. His mouth twitching.